Soaring High
by friedegg987
Summary: There are downfalls in sacrificing your life to save the world. For what seemed to be minute for Wally is nine years later into the future where he finds that his girlfriend is married, his best friend is obsessed in quarantining him, and the only person normal around here is the resurrected Jason Todd, and that's saying something.
1. Prologue

**Soaring High**

**SUMMARY:** There are downfalls in sacrificing your life to save the world. For what seemed to be minute for Wally is nine years later into the future where he finds that his girlfriend is married, his best friend is obsessed in quarantining him, and the only person normal around here is the resurrected Jason Todd, and that's saying something.

* * *

Being a speedster, there is a source of heat that is generated within me. It is within everyone, but, for speedsters, it is constantly vibrating, atoms rubbing against atoms, a constant that induces a greater warmth than coming from many. In a way, it is the pulsating heart of the speedforce—that links us to the speedforce. And with this heat, it'd be hard for the cold to affect us in any way. Whether it be snowing or storming, whether I am in the arctic or tundra, I'm fine.

But this endless chase of—of _something_ that I'm stuck in—this pattern—sends sheers of white pain across my forearms, my legs, my face. It's as though I'm dipped in below zero—I know that I said that speedsters are tolerant of the cold, but we're not entirely resistant. The environment may not bring us down, but Captain Cold's freeze gun, for example, is a different story.

The path before me continuously diverges into many thin ones, but I maintain on the widest one despite its wildly veering curves. Ahead of me, it is as though the world peeling apart as I run through that dark crevice that is never within my reach. The air is shifting always, but the lopes and iciness are the same. It is monochromatic and bright. My lungs feel tight, but I don't grow weary.

Time is relative to speedsters. We can make a minute into a year if we wanted to. If Barry and Jay (and possibly Bart) wanted to. I'm not as fast, but, still, this rule applies to me nevertheless. Time is slow and can be slower if we will it. So I must have been running for a minute because it feels too long. I don't know how long—an hour, a day, a month—but it's long, and outside the speedforce it must only be a minute (maybe a second).

I'm still running. Suddenly, that black crack of the world is getting nearer—to near, too fast—and I'm afraid. I decelerate my steps, but I end up plunging into the darkness.

* * *

I open my eyes, seeing a horizon of snow.

I close my eyes, hearing someone calling my name.


	2. Chapter 1

Plenty of things sure have changed… It makes me kind of wish that I never had opened my eyes.

(Or left the speedforce.)

Yeah, I know. That's not something that I should even think about. I should be happy that everyone—mostly everyone—is still alive and doing well. I should be grateful that all my friends and family happened to be around by the time I woke up from my one month long coma. I should be ecstatic that Bart took the mantle, that Kid Flash is still around, that he had taken up the slack when Barry was occupied with his kids. I should be relieved that Dad is winning his battle against cancer.

That Artemis—who was my girlfriend for what felt like a minute ago when it was actually nine years—had moved on, gotten married, and had a kid. With Kaldur.

Kaldur is a great guy—he always will be. I can already tell that he's a great husband for her and great father for their kid.

Oh, for the love of—. They had a kid.

It's been _nine years._ I should be thirty, but I'm still twenty-one. Everyone is older than me, including my not-so thirteen-year-old cousin.

And, what's more, I lost my speed.

I didn't think that it would have mattered when I was eighteen or nineteen; I envisioned a certain future, one with Artemis in it. Now with that gone, with Artemis gone, what do I have left? I've been declared dead, so it's not like I can resume my last year at Stanford. Heck, I can't be Wally anymore, I don't think. Wally is dead—it says so on my gravestone.

I scuff my shoe against the pavement and shove my fists into the pockets of the hoodie that I stole from Dick's closet. There is dim lighting from the streetlamps that cast overhead. I couldn't recognize this part of the city, but I know that I trekked far from the manor. The sharp ache on my feet would be a sign of that.

"Bit of a bad idea to go for a midnight stroll in Gotham."

I jump and turn around. He's hiding in the shadows, but I could make out his outline: A broad-shouldered man with considerable height. I instinctively tensed as though I would be ready to burst into a run, but a split second later I remember that I couldn't. You'd think that I would feel a difference in having and losing my speed, but the only difference I feel is the absence of rush of adrenaline pumping through my veins and how the world doesn't seem so slow anymore. It makes me feel...moronic. I've grown accustomed to processing information quickly, a trait shared by all speedsters; now, however, everything is going at a pace where I can't keep up.

I briefly wondered if I could make a break for it, nonetheless. Whether he is a stranger striking up a random conversation or… Well, why would a stranger want to make small talk this late at night? In Gotham, for that matter? It's just as the man implied—Gotham isn't safe, especially when daylight is replaced with nighttime.

I know this—I had occasionally patrolled these streets when Dick was Robin, so of course I know this. But I needed to get away, to clear my head, which resulted as unsuccessful. Actually, I don't think I was conscious of exchanging my sweatpants and T-shirt for something to wear out. I just wanted to go out for a walk.

"I come in peace," the man says, stepping out of the dark and into the pale yellow illumination. He's garbed in Kevlar and he has weapons strapped onto his person. They aren't noticeable, but years of superheroing have me be able to identify whose clothes are lined with what and what is in their arsenal. Ironically, I came to notice his most outlandish feature last.

Encasing the entirety of his head is a red mask—no, I'm sure that it's a helmet. White lenses trained on me glint under the light like the rounded top of the helmet. His gloved hands are raised to side of his head as though in mockery of that peace that he was talking about.

Is this guy a new Gotham Rogue? Because he definitely doesn't look heroic.

"Look, I'm not gonna hurt you," he begins.

"Who are you?" I interrupt, and then curse inwardly. If I screw things up, like pissing him off with my big mouth, I won't have my speed to back me up. Years of being a hero pretty much had me develop a recklessness whenever in the face of danger, and now it's going to be a complete health hazard for me as a civilian.

The man lowers his arms to side. Nervousness shoots up within me, but his hands don't reach for a weapon. "We can do introductions later. Right now, I'm taking you to the Batcave."

My eyes widen. He knows about the Batcave?

"Yes, I know about the Batcave. Geez, your thoughts are so visible in your expression. It's a wonder how you managed in convert missions," he sneers.

Now I'm really taken aback. "You—you're a hero?" He knows about the team?

"People call me a miscreant of justice, an antihero, but I guess a hero is a hero." He shrugs. "Anyway, let's get you back before Dick gets his panties in a twist."

He knows the about Batcave and Dick—he obviously has connections with Batman. Did he learn about the team through him? Or did he find out by himself? For that matter, can this man be trusted? Catwoman, as far as I'm aware, holds knowledge of Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson and their alter egos. I willing to bet that she knows about Jason Todd and Tim Drake as well. Bruce may have trusted her to keep that sort of information to herself, but she's still a thief. There must be some sort of compromise going on.

I find myself reluctant to go with this—what did he call himself?—antihero. For all I know, he deliberately slipped in these specious truths to lower my guard—that I would be reassured that he knows about Dick and that he's a fighter for justice, regardless of what a miscreant he is. As much as I hate to admit it, I'm utterly vulnerable. I haven't practiced my hand-to-hand combat for years, and I always had relied on my speed seventy percent of the time. Not to mention how being put into a coma rendered my muscle mass to basically nothingness. He could take advantage of my state of weakness and, I don't know, use me to blackmail Batman for compensation.

Before I made my decision, the man sidles next to me with a swiftness that I only typically see in Dick. His arm snakes around my waist and pulls me against his chest—it's armored, I notice. With his other hand, he takes out a grappling gun, holds it high, and shoots. The next thing I know, I'm flying through air and the man's arm is bruising my ribs.

To my disdain, we land to the side of a building. The strip of concrete is hardly wide enough to accommodate my footing, so I end up pressing my back against the wall, trying not to look down. The man, on the other hand, balances like the expert that I didn't take him for; it's like he's been doing this on a regular basis, hanging off the edge of thirty-feet-tall buildings without ever tripping and plummeting to his death.

"Are you crazy?" I bite out. I never had a fear of heights, but this might change things.

"Need a hand?"

"What I need is my feet on the ground."

"I thought that you'd be used to this sort of thing. You know, being a Kid Flash and all."

"Yeah, well, if I'm ever above sea-level, it's normally where I'm not precariously on the edge."

From the corner of my eye, I see him shake his head. "Alright, look at me. Hey, look at me." He grabs for my wrist. "I told you we'd do introductions later, right? Well, I deem now as later."

"Let me guess, they call you Helmet Head," I joke weakly.

He snorts. "Red Hood, actually."

"Red…?" Wasn't Red Hood Joker's first alias?

"No, I'm not the clown's avid fan or anything."

"Then why Red Hood?" I inquire.

"It's…to ridicule him. It's complicated."

I want to press on, but, from the tone of his voice, that doesn't seem like a good idea. "It'd be pointless to introduce myself since you already know who I am," I say, redirecting the conversation.

"Wally West, the first Kid Flash, retired at age eighteen," he lists off. "A rather early age to quit, I'd say."

"And pointless in the end," I mutter.

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

"Nah, c'mon. Why'd you quit? I heard that it was because of college, but all teen heroes dealt with juggling school and beating up bad guys."

I frown. "College is different than high school." In some ways.

"Is that the reason then? Because you wanted to focus on your education more than saving lives?"

"Don't put it like that," I snap. "Quitting was probably the hardest thing I ever had to do. I loved being Kid Flash."

"Then why quit?" he insists.

"Tell me how you know who I am and then I'll tell you why," I counter.

"Man, you're a hard case—wasn't expecting that from the famous goofball," he gibes, giving my wrist a slight squeeze. "If you must know, I heard from Dick."

"How did you come to know him?"

"Ah ah. You ask a question, and then I ask a question. It's a fair exchange, don't you agree?"

"I quit because of Artemis," I say grudgingly.

"All for a girl?"

"I wanted to concentrate on my studies too, but I mostly didn't want to live in risks and chances. Superheroing is great, but dangerous. I wanted to make my time with Artemis first and foremost. It was why I—_we_ quit."

"She hasn't quit even after she became Mrs. Aquarius."

"I guess getting back to the game made her realize how much she missed it." I try not to be bitter about it, but I can't help but wonder if it was me who was holding her back this whole time. When I told her my reason why for quitting those three—twelve years ago, she hugged and kissed me and told me that she loved me, and then she resigned from her position as Green Arrow's protégé. I did plan on trying to persuade her into following my lead, but she ended up doing it all on her own accord.

Maybe she was taken up by the moment. Maybe she was getting tired of all the crime-fighting and wanted to take a break that she could have as a civilian. Maybe… Maybe she truly did agree with what I had intended, yet resuming back into the game as Artemis and then Tigress after a period of normalcy made her remember the thrill of the action. I know that feeling; that's what I felt when I went back to being Kid Flash. But the call of the hero was simply an anthem of nostalgia; for Artemis, it must be like the bells ringing for her home welcome.

"Hmm." Red Hood squeezes my wrist again, breaking me out of my thoughts. "Your turn to ask a question."

"Oh." I stare blankly at his shoulder. "Uh, how did you and Dick come to know each other?"

"Through Bruce," he replies. "What were you planning on majoring in college?"

"Uh, Physics." I'm surprised that he knows Bruce. Just how familiar is he with the Bats?

"Ah, you always did strike me as the science geek," he says knowingly.

"Do _I _know you?"

"You know me now. We've gone through the introductions, haven't we?"

"I mean behind the mask," I say, annoyed.

"Maybe, maybe not."

"You're not answering my question."

"Why do you think I wear a mask, West? It's to keep my identity a secret. If I tell you who I am, it wouldn't be a secret anymore, would it?"

"I'll ask Dick, then."

"But wouldn't you rather prefer keeping your rescuer an enigmatic figure?"

"No."

"Not even if I beg on my knees?"

"Oh, wouldn't that be a sight."

"Boy, aren't you a ray of sunshine. What happened to the jokester that I heard so much about?"

"Do you want a list?" Because I can so easily supply.

Unexpectedly, Red Hood barks out loud laughter. It takes me by surprise that I nearly slip off of the building. "Melancholy really does color you well, West," he chuckles.

"I'm so happy that you find enjoyment in my misery," I grumble, trying to tug my wrist free. His hand, however, remains locked on. "Dude, let go."

"Ah, don't pout. I meant that in the bestest way."

"I certainly don't feel the _bestest_."

"You should. A compliment from me is a rarity."

I wonder why.

"So, what's your favorite color?"

"Isn't it my turn?" I protest.

"You already used up your turn when you asked me if you know me."

"In which you never gave an answer to."

"Sure I did. You just weren't satisfied with it. Anyway, favorite color?"

"Seriously? That's the lamest question ever."

"If you don't answer it, you won't get your turn to ask."

I sigh. "Fine. Red."

"Typical. Oh, hey, look, we're here."

Here? I strain my neck so that I could look past his shoulder. Before us is a wide expanse of flat surface. It isn't ground, but a roof is infinitely better than where we currently are. I glance behind me. We crossed the side of the building and I didn't even realize it until now.

"It's a pretty far leap. Think you're up for it?" Red Hood asks.

"I may be retired, but I used to face danger daily," I scoff. "Of course I am."

"And you were put into a month long coma, you've lost significant weight, and you don't have your powers anymore."

"How do you know the things that you do?"

"I have my resources. So are you going to stay twenty-one or change to thirty?"

"I don't feel thirty," I mutter. "Wait, are we still playing this game?"

"Yeah. Isn't it fun?"

"Just jump already!" I snap exasperatedly.

Red Hood takes his leap, and I soon follow after. Admittedly, I miscalculated the distance, so when I landed on the edge, I nearly teetered back if it weren't for Red Hood reeling me in after grabbing my arm.

"You're definitely not rusty," he drawls out dryly.

I rip my arm away, and, this time, he lets go.

"Well? Aren't you going to show me the way to the Batcave?" I huff out, crossing my arms.

"That's the plan. What did you like to do when you were a kid?"

I think it's established that Red Hood isn't a bad guy, but it would be foolish to not be wary of him. Or perhaps he has successfully convinced me that he's not a villain plotting against Batman and the Justice League. Either way, I just can't perceive him having any ulterior motives.

I've certainly dealt with characters of deception before in my experience of covert missions, but Red Hood doesn't seem to fit in any of the categories. I mean, the playfulness and the snide remarks should be indicators of a guise, and the choice of his "vigilante" name is blatantly questionable. But, then again, he knows about Dick, Bruce, the Batcave, the team, and me. And, even if it was a lie about Dick telling Red Hood about me and everything, I don't think the Bats would let him off so easily if he poses as a threat.

"Watch cartoons, draw, play outside," I reply. "How about you?"

"Steal, scavenged, smoked. I was a street kid! Don't give me that look."

I flatten my lips.

"I also liked to read in my pastime. I read nearly all the classics."

"I didn't take you to be an avid reader."

"Most people would say that," he responds. Red Hood stops short and looks up. "It appears that your knight-in-shining-armor is here to sweep you off your feet. Sorry, princess, but another time, okay?"

I'm about to ask him what he was talking about when I sensed a dark figure standing behind me. I turn around and see that it's Batman. He isn't as tall as Red Hood, but he gave off a towering presence, one that has all the crooks succumb to his will. I think the cape enhances that feature.

I look over my shoulder. Red Hood vanished.

"Uh, hi, Dick," I say, putting on a weary smile.


End file.
